| When the wind’s from the north, love
|
| I can hear the railway line
|
| That low, lonesome whistle
|
| Comes floating through the night
|
| And I dream of departure
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| Of a suitcase by the door
|
| And I wake in the morning
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| As weary as before I fell asleep
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| When the wind’s from the west, love
|
| I can smell the distant sea
|
| And ten thousand teardrops
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| Come flooding back to me
|
| I’d almost forgotten
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| How we spoke of setting sail
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| That evening gin-sodden
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| The moon a fingernail scratched in the sky
|
| For we’d seen the sorrow summer brings
|
| Where the chiming wedgebill sings
|
| «Oh why did you get drunk?
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| Why did you get drunk?»
|
| But when the wind’s from the south, love
|
| You’re only half an hour from here
|
| I hardly need pedal
|
| And that hill just disappears
|
| The silos stands silent
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| Down that endless railway line
|
| The district’s deserted
|
| The sunset might be mine
|
| And yours, of course
|
| But I’ve seen the sorrow summer brings
|
| Where the chiming wedgebill sings
|
| «Oh why did you get drunk?
|
| Why did you get drunk?
|
| Why did you get drunk?
|
| Oh why did you get drunk?» |